Half-past nine, exactly
by Emrys1411
Summary: Many things led to Tony's actions on that Saturday morning, at half-past nine exactly. But life had other plans and Tony didn't die that day. He had wanted to, for a little while, a long while. But Gibbs found him. He brought him back. Pre-series, AU. Gibbs and Tony friendship. Warning: this is a suicide fic, but not a death fic. Please read the warnings before continuing.
1. Chapter 1

**Half-past nine, exactly. **

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**Warning:** This is a very dark piece of writing. Suicide, depression. Please, please don't read this if you feel you shouldn't. I have no experience with suicide, so all mistakes are my own and I will try my best not to offend or hurt anyone because I understand how sensitive a topic this is. Please be aware that I'm only writing this for fanfiction - it doesn't mean anything and if I say anything to upset anyone, I'm very sorry.

**A/N:** I'm not sure where this came from really. It'll probably be a two-shot. I've only watched the first season of NCIS, so I've decided to set this pre-series so I won't make any plot mistakes etc. The only characters will be Gibbs and Tony, and as I'm not that familiar with the show, I'm sorry if they are out of character. I tried my best! AU, probably. No spoilers.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own NCIS.

* * *

He wasn't exactly sure why he chose Saturday morning.

Half-past nine, exactly.

It was a quiet time, gentle. Dinozzo could hear the lulling buzz of traffic just outside his apartment building – the distinct lack of blaring horns reminded him that it wasn't rush hour.

It was the weekend.

Time for slowing down, and stopping.

Pausing.

Breathing.

_Waiting. _

Waiting for the next week, which would be exactly the same as the one before it.

Long, painful, and something else.

Anthony Dinozzo Jr wasn't entirely sure exactly when he began to dread not only Monday mornings, but every morning after that.

Every drive to the Navy yard.

Every break at work.

Every evening at home, alone, because he wanted to be.

In fact, he hated every second of every minute when he was forced to _think._

Think about the things he couldn't bare to think about, because there was no report to be written during those times, no murderer to catch, no joke to laugh at (laugh at only because that's what they all expect of Dinozzo).

Dinozzo the joker.

_The Joke._

Sat alone, half-dressed on his bathroom floor, wedged between the bathtub and the sink, a fillet knife resting delicately in his left hand.

Why a fillet knife?

Why not his gun?

Tony wasn't sure of anything in that moment. In fact, he barely remembered picking the object up, drawing it from the rack above the oven, hearing the quiet yelp of metal passing over metal.

He vaguely recalled waking up from another restless sleep, then drinking coffee, eating burnt toast.

Then he was in the bathroom, weighing the knife in his palm. It was a nimble knife, dainty, and he twirled it around his fingers, watching with slight awe as the electric light of the bulb glinted in the knife's mirrored surface. It caught the light and snatched it away.

Tony ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, savouring the sting of broken flesh, the thin line of red left behind.

He didn't press too hard.

Not yet.

Dinozzo sat there for quite some time.

The dark, overcast sky outside was replaced with a delicate blue and streaks of sunlight managed to pierce the clouds, the rays drifting through the bathroom window.

But it wasn't warm.

Anthony was as cold as always was.

But what was always? When had he stopped being warm, vibrant, happy to wake up in the silver light of dawn?

He loved his job.

His boss.

His friends.

Or at least he thought he did.

He couldn't even be sure of that now.

With that small, insignificant revelation, Dinozzo held out his left arm and let the tip of the blade rest lightly upon the crook of his elbow.

Then slowly, he began to trace red patterns upon the skin all the way down to his wrist.

He purposely avoided the startlingly blue veins.

He knew not to touch the important bits, not just yet.

He had time.

The blood pulsed sluggishly from the cuts, just like Dinozzo had planned. It ran over the sides of his arm, before droplets fell like rain onto the tiled floor.

Red on white.

So, so, _bright._

Then he stopped because his phone was ringing.

With a frown, Tony pulled out the offending device from his trouser pocket and stared at the screen.

Gibbs.

Oh, fuck.

Pure dread, or fear, or something in that spectrum, made Dinozzo tense and his fingers clutched shakily around his cell phone.

Did he answer it?

Lie?

Ignore it?

And carry on doing what he had planned.

Although, it would actually be a lie to describe _this _as a planned.

He didn't go to bed Friday night knowing it would be his last night on this earth.

He just went to bed hoping he wouldn't have to wake up again.

The thing is, Tony didn't actually want to die.

He just didn't want to live anymore.

There _was _a difference.

If sleeping all hours meant he could forget, free himself from the pain, then that's what he would do.

But slitting his wrists and ending it quickly was a helluva lot easier than finding a way to put himself in some sort of coma.

The phone was still ringing.

For some unknown reason, he accepted the call.

But he said nothing.

_Dinozzo?_

Tony let his eyes fall shut, his teeth coming to bite down hard on his lip to withhold the sob that suddenly clutched at his chest.

_Dinozzo, you there?_

With a shuddering breathe, Tony nodded pointlessly and managed to force out a single word.

"Yes."

_Look, I know Morrow took us off rotation for a few days but something's come up. Can you be in the office by one? I'll see you there – _

"Wait – "

Tony wasn't sure why he interrupted the man.

An excuse not to do this was exactly what he needed.

He could distract himself with a new case, a new horror, if only for a little while.

He could pretend to be okay, just for a little bit longer.

_What? Look, your weekend plans can wait. We have a dead marine –_

"Gibbs."

A name.

Two 'b's for bastard.

It came out choked, a harsh, obstructed sort of whimper and Tony let his head slam back against the bathroom wall.

Twice.

He liked the way it dulled everything for a moment.

_Tony?_

The use of his first name made it worse and Anthony Dinozzo slammed his bloody palm against his forehead, smearing blood in his hair, his teeth clenched together, his panting breath whistling, his ears ringing, his chest heaving.

He couldn't stop crying.

God, he felt so sick.

And stupid.

"Gibbs, I'm not sure….I'm not sure…."

His words sounded lost, quiet, even to his own ears and judging by the gentle, almost soft reply of his boss, Gibbs heard a broken man too.

_What's wrong? You sick?_

Sick?

No.

Yes.

That was a technicality.

Physically, he was fine.

Except for the blood spilling from his skin.

In all other aspects of the word?

No.

Dinozzo couldn't describe how far gone he was.

Tony licked his dry, cracked lips and breathed.

He had to talk, find some way out of this.

But he couldn't stop himself.

He had lost the little control he possessed.

He'd lost everything.

"Did you know suicide by a firearm is more common in males than females? Of course you knew that, Boss. Still, my mom took a gun to her head. I always wondered why. Why not the painkillers stashed in her draw? Why not the roof? It wasn't like the mansion wasn't _tall_ enough. Why not the fillet knife? She wasn't a messy person – "

A sharp bark was the response Leroy Jethro Gibbs gave.

_Dinozzo. What the __**hell**__ are you talking about? _

Then there was a pause, a jangle of keys, a shuffle of feet.

_Tony, tell me….what are you doing?_

There was something frantic in Gibb's voice.

It was funny actually, Tony had only ever heard the man angry.

Furious.

But never concerned, at least, not like that.

Tony blinked down at the knife still in his fingers and it felt so right and yet, at the same time, this all felt so fucking wrong.

It terrified Dinozzo.

Perhaps it was true – he wanted to die.

That wish alone was more petrifying than anything he had ever felt before.

With a sharp cry and ebbing strength, he threw the phone against the wall and watched it bounce across the tiles.

It made a crunching sound.

Like breaking bone.

And then it was just Tony, and the silence, again.

The knife remained in his hand, but he didn't use it just yet.

In a minute, he would.

In a minute, he'd do it.

He _had_ to.


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Same warning apply as in chapter one.

A/N: Thank you so, so much for the supportive reviews and encouragement! I greatly appreciate them, I really do. I really dislike this chapter - it was much, much harder to write than the first and again, I hope I don't offend anyone. Gibbs may be totally unrealistic, sorry is he is, but I tried my best. I hope this is okay. I'm thinking about adding another chapter because I couldn't find the right moment to end this one, so please tell me if you think I should.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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That one minute turned into five.

Five blurred into ten.

Ten became something else.

Something too late.

Tony had held the knife softly upon his wrist, barely touching. The blade didn't feel cold against the clammy, chilled surface of his skin. It felt heavy, and dense and his hands shook at the weight of it.

One little slip, and that would be it.

But he couldn't do it.

He could so easily do it.

Take the weight off his hand, his aching muscles.

He wanted to.

He _needed_ to.

But he just couldn't move.

Tony was shaking violently, trembling against the cold tiles, watching as blood continued to flow from his wounds and he swore to himself that in a second, in a moment, he'd slice his wrist open with the fillet knife.

Anthony Dinozzo would look back on that Saturday many times in future years and wonder, why didn't he do it?

What stopped him, exactly?

By the time Tony realised that he couldn't move, that his resolve was crumbling away at its foundations, like everything else in his pathetic little life, it was too late because Gibbs had arrived.

It hadn't actually occurred to Dinozzo that his boss would come.

His thinking was too distorted – his thoughts, his emotions, his anger and hatred and fear, had twisted together into some sort of unrecognisable fire within his chest.

It burned and it just grew fiercer, brighter, with every passing hour.

Tony wasn't sure how much longer he could stand the flames, the smell of everything good in his life being torched inside his head.

Torched.

Destroyed.

That's what the knife was for, to stop the destruction before it was complete.

He could halt it and end it before the pain became even more unbearable than it already was.

Tony couldn't face another day.

But Gibbs had other ideas.

Dinozzo didn't actually hear the older man breaking into his apartment, calling out his name, checking the other rooms in quick, hurried footsteps.

He only noticed Gibb's presence when the Marine towered above him in the electric afternoon light. His blue eyes, ice cold, like frost on a winter morning, were narrowed, unreadable.

Gibbs was shouting, hissing, _snarling_ down on Tony and Dinozzo, for it was worth, tried to listen over the roaring of his ears, the hammering of his broken heart. He made out some words and they cut deeper than any knife ever could.

"What the hell are you doing, _Dinozzo_?"

Gibbs spat his name, like it was a thing for disgust, for contempt, for hatred and the spite seemed to tear at something already torn to shreds instead him.

"You just gonna cut and run? What are you, huh? A coward?!"

"No." Tony's reply was barely a whisper, a soft muttering that he hoped Gibbs hadn't heard.

In fact, picking up that knife had been the bravest thing he'd done in long, long time.

But Gibbs heard him and suddenly, the older man was on his knees, invading Dinozzo's personal space, thrusting his face mere inches from the younger man's own.

"Then _what_? A selfish bastard who's happy to leave everyone else to pick up the pieces? Mop your blood up from the bathroom floor?"

His sharp, bitter words eventually faded away because Tony wasn't listening.

Instead, he found himself staring intently at the man in front of him with something akin to morbid curiousity.

Gibbs looked older than usual, the lines around his mouth, across his forehead, crinkling deeper in something unidentifiable, the shadows under his eyes stretched and made him look hollow, and hauntingly worn.

Like a jacko-lantern.

His eyes, while still the lightest of blues, were somehow so dark, Dinozzo feared he'd get lost in them.

So Tony looked away, shivered, and the knife had never felt heavier.

Gibbs continued to talk, and Tony began to cry.

Silently, of course, he didn't have enough strength for much else.

The tears pooled in his eyes, he felt them tickling his eyelashes, droplets of salty pain, and then suddenly, Tony was screeching.

The younger man's voice was hoarse, tired, pained, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Take it! Just take it! Just take the _fucking_ knife, Gibbs, because I can't let go!" Tony took no hazardous breath, no pause, he just kept shrieking, his voice rising, "I can't stop, boss, I'm not strong enough to stop! I don't care what you think about me, just take the damn knife because I'm going to do it if you don't. I have _nothing_ left, can't you understand that?! Can't you see?!"

Then Tony stopped, his chest heaving, every inhalation catching in his throat and he gasped, feeling sick to his stomach like something was forcing its way up his throat.

"Just take the knife, please, Gibbs, please." Muttered the young man in a quiet, almost inaudible whisper, his eyes falling shut, his head lolling forward, chin to chest.

He couldn't look at the other man, because of the shame, the self-loathing, the indignity at having to beg Gibbs to take the knife because he wasn't strong enough to let go.

He wasn't strong enough to use it either.

There was a silence, in which Tony didn't breathe and Gibbs bit into his lip.

"Okay, Dinozzo, okay."

Then slowly, Tony noted the warm fingers that gently wrapped around his own right hand, softly prying his own fingers, one by one, away from the blade until the weapon was gone.

He heard Gibbs toss the knife across the room so it skated over the floor, snagging on the rug, before gliding into the hallway.

Without warning, Gibbs then picked up Tony's injured wrist and, a thousand times more lightly than was necessary, began to wrap it in a hand towel discarded by the bath in some sort of makeshift bandage.

The older man could tell the blood loss wasn't extreme, nor would it be.

Those cuts hadn't intended to kill.

"Goddamit, Dinozzo, why did you do this to yourself?" But the question, uttered in a quiet, gruff tone, wasn't one of anger or rage. It was of intense sadness and grief. "How could you?"

The concern directed his way was what broke Tony.

He cried weakly, his body jerking, his ribcage jumping at the sobs which wracked his aching, shivering body.

Gibbs, however, knew exactly what Tony needed.

So he shuffled backwards and grasped Dinozzo by the biceps, before slowly pulling the young man out of the alcove he was slumped in. With a sigh, he got onto his knees and dragged his limp agent into his arms and settled him against his chest. The marine's arms came to wrap tightly, securely, around his newest recruit. One hand drifted up to tangle into Dinozzo's dark hair, his fingers running through the messy locks in the gentlest, most tender, motion.

Tony's head fitted perfectly into the crook of his boss's neck, his cheek resting on the older man's collarbone as Gibbs let his chin rest upon the others head.

Dinozzo could hear Gibbs' racing heartbeat, thudding, drumming like music and Tony tried to breathe through the tears, the moans of pure despair that overshadowed everything.

Even the soothing embrace he hadn't realised Gibbs was capable of giving, to him at least, couldn't calm him.

He couldn't breathe and the kindness was too much.

He didn't deserve that.

_Kindness. _

So Tony wept with everything he had left, his eyes screwed shut against the world as his fingers curled around the material of Gibbs' jacket, his nails blunt and bleeding from where his teeth had been gnawing at them over the last few weeks.

He felt his boss brush his lips against the younger man's head – a hesitant, soft kiss against his hair.

"Shh. Now you listen to me, Tony."

Tony could barely hear the man over his gagging sobs.

"I'm not going to insult you and pretend I know exactly how you're feeling. Or how you could to this point. But, for what it's worth, I've been where you are. After my girls died, who could blame me for wishing I was with them? Or better yet, dead instead of them. How could I go on living when they had that opportunity ripped away? Kelly, a child, a beautiful child…she deserved life. She loved it. And when she and Shannon were gone, I thought about joining 'em. Heck, I planned it. I got as far as you did. I was so close – "

Gibbs paused for a sharp intake of breath and the arms around Tony only tightened.

" – I kept trying to pull the trigger. A gun seemed like the obvious option, the easy one. I wouldn't feel anything. That's all I wanted, to stop feeling. To stop knowing that I'd never look at Shannon and Kelly again. Never talk to them or laugh, cry. A life without them was no life at all."

Tony barely noticed the way the pair rocked the bathroom floor, side to side in one smooth motion, like a rocking horse. The floor, unsurprisingly, was wet and the icy water seeped through their clothes, into Tony's bones.

Tony did notice the way Gibbs voice shook minutely – it was barely there, the tremor, yet Dinozzo could feel it through the man's throat. A subtle, heart-wrenching shudder. Tony coughed harshly at the sound of it.

"Why didn't you end it? Boss?" Tony whispered against Gibbs' shirt, biting down so hard on his lip that he drew hot, tangy blood. He almost regretted asking the question.

"The same reason you didn't once you threw your phone against the wall. You had twenty minutes, Dinozzo. It took me _twenty minutes_ to get here – "

"Even with your driving?" Tony grimace twisted momentarily into a cautious smile, which vanished as soon as it came, replaced by a strangled cry.

But Gibbs chuckled at that tiny, seemingly insignificant comment.

"You had twenty minutes to kill yourself and you didn't. Why not?"

_Why not?_

Anthony Dinozzo Jr couldn't answer that. It was a simple question. He didn't slit his wrists, but it wasn't because he'd found a sudden, bright spark of hope buried beneath the misery.

He hadn't stopped because he wanted to live again, or because he believed the pain would go away.

Perhaps he stopped because somewhere, beneath childhood traumas and emotional neglect, he trusted, for a little while, that Gibbs would come.

His boss wouldn't abandon him.

He might not be able to save him, but he was willing to try.

Tony tried to blink away his blurring vision at that idea.

The idea that he trusted someone other than himself.

Another human being cared enough to stop Tony ending it all.

"I don't know, Gibbs. I just couldn't do it…I couldn't move anything." Tony slurred, emotionally spent, physically drained and unwilling to open his own eyes and look into those of the man who had saved him. "I still want to do it."

"I know you do, Dinozzo. But you won't. One day, you'll be so glad you didn't. I can promise you that."

"Don't make promises you can't keep." Dinozzo winced at the ferocity in his own response, but he couldn't see a way out of this.

There was no point to any of _this._

There was no light at the end of the tunnel.

The tunnel just stretched onwards, forever, into eternity.

The shadows would never recede, the darkness would always linger.

The crippling sadness would remain.

"I couldn't expect you to believe that. But believe me when I tell you, there is _always_ something worth fighting, living for, Dinozzo. It could be anything. That first cup of coffee on a February morning. The sun on your face when spring finally appears. Christmas cards from colleagues you didn't realise knew your name. Aw hell, I don't know, Dinozzo. But it's the small things in life that make up the bigger picture."

Tony didn't answer. He just clung frantically onto the older man to keep himself grounded, to stop himself from drifting away. Sat there, being held, it ignited a warmth within his chest.

There's no chance that it outweighed the pain, or helped alleviate the sorrow.

The warmth and the pain were in fact separate entities.

They existed quietly alongside each other.

Gibbs and Tony stayed that way for half an hour, neither man saying a word.

Tony's cries appeared to quieten, out of exhaustion, or comfort, or both. He continued to shudder in his boss' grip, desperate to maintain contact yet also desperate to pull away and try to escape the humiliation. Instead, Tony just closed his eyes and focused on the laborious task of matching his own frantic breathing to Gibbs' own.

He heard Gibbs' muttering quietly into his cell phone, the distant voice of Ducky on the other end of the line.

"Duck, I know…The bleeding's stopped now….yeah, they weren't that deep…No, I won't take him there. You come here, Ducky and keep this quiet….His apartment door must still be open….No, I had to break the damn lock….just hurry, Ducky."

The call ended and Gibbs let his head fall so his cheek rested on top of Dinozzo's hair.

He wasn't going anywhere, not ever. Gibbs refused to just let the kid, who had come to mean so much to him over the last year, go.

He was going to get Dinozzo through this, whatever it took and Gibbs would be right there beside him the entire way until they reached the end of that dark tunnel, until they found a shaft of light.

The light, bright or dim, was there somewhere.

Tony couldn't see it, feel it, and breathe it.

He'd lost sight of life, and all it entails, but he'd find it again.

_One day_.


End file.
